


deus ex machina

by quietmoon



Series: megop week 2020 [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Fate, Flirting, Fluff, Gods, Humor, M/M, megatronus has a secret admirer lmao, this is so dumb skjdlfdfs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietmoon/pseuds/quietmoon
Summary: Standing before the Iaconian council, Megatronus makes his case for Primacy. However, he learns swiftly that it is not under the jurisdiction of the council to elect a Prime — they outsource that sort of thing.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Series: megop week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824118
Comments: 53
Kudos: 228
Collections: MegOP Week 2020





	deus ex machina

**Author's Note:**

> [prompt](https://megop.tumblr.com/post/188937997837/the-results-have-been-calculated-megop-week-will): deity/fairy tale
> 
> i speed-wrote this instead of packing for my flight askjldfh happy megop week!! *throws confetti*

Megatronus knows exactly what he’s doing. This is what he’s been preparing for for vorns — this is what he’s spent his entire _life_ getting ready for. _There’s no need to be nervous,_ he reassures himself. _This is what you were sparked to do._

The huge doors to the council chambers open with a heavy thrum, light spilling out into the dim of the Iaconian evening. Megatronus swallows heavily. He works his sharp dentae against each other before running his tongue across the spikes.

 _I was sparked for this._ A small frame slips through the gargantuan doors, silhouetted in the entranceway. _They will not deny me. I **am** the next Prime—_

“Megatronus of Kaon,” the secretary calls.

His spark contracts.

The gathered crowd was hushed in expectant silence, and when his name is finally announced, there’s a long moment where every mech in the vicinity seems to vent in as one. Then, a great cheer takes over the group, and Megatronus finds himself pushed forward by excited servos. He glances back for Soundwave, optics wide, and find him on the periphery of the crowd, servos crossed, body language determined.

The faceplate is staring straight at him, and an astro-klik later his communications system receives a reassuring data burst. _Keep faith, Megatronus Prime._ Soundwave says in the recesses of Megatronus’ processor, in his own deep modulated voice. _Megatronus Prime._

Megatronus grins. It is half-bravado, half-promise. _When next we meet,_ he sends back, _it will be more than a borrowed title._

It worked. Soundwave never uses his own voice, _never_ — except when he must. When he cannot hold it back. The reassuring words echo back through his neural net in the voice of his oldest friend: _keep faith._

Megatronus settles his faceplates into a smile he hopes is both confident and dignified, and straightens up to walk the rest of the way into the council chambers alone. The crowd watch him go; his supporters, journalists, Iaconians who wanted in on the show, they all watch as the activist who was a gladiator who was a miner steps forth.

The secretary waits for him by the entrance. As he walks up, Megatronus realises he still can’t make out the features, silhouetted as he is. He stands within the building, not stepping a foot outside of the ring of light that welcomes visitors to Iacon’s most prestigious and ancient hall.

“Megatronus of Kaon?” the mech prompts once he is stood directly in front of the doors, in a voice that is deep and calm. Bright blue optics glow through the dim up at him.

Megatronus nods.

The secretary looks him up and down. He then turns — prompting for Megatronus to follow — and leads him into the chambers. Megatronus invents deeply, and does so.

The doors close behind them with that same low hum. The secretary does not turn around, but his pace is leisurely he walks. Megatronus falls into step beside him quickly.

“What is your designation?” he asks, taking the opportunity to give the mech a once-over.

Their frame is slight, but built with a deceptive sturdiness. A rich red and deep blue overlap silver across the frame; built broad at the shoulders with an attractive tapered waist, and long graceful legs. When the mech glances up at Megatronus to reply, Megatronus finds himself taken aback. The expression is… at first sight, calm and polite and dignified, but he swears he detects a glimmer of amusement in the optics. He imperceptibly narrows his own in response.

“I am the archivist,” the mech says.

When he doesn’t elaborate, Megatronus frowns. “I requested your designation, not your caste.”

The mech is not startled. If anything, he looks more amused, lips curling ever so slightly. “Forgive me. You may call me Orion Pax.”

“Orion Pax,” Megatronus tests out the name. It sits nicely on his tongue. “Of Iacon?”

Orion hums. Oh, he’s _definitely_ laughing now. “Indeed.”

Is he laughing at Megatronus? Irritation stabs through his neural net. Is this a game to these higher-up mecha? But something tells him that’s not quite accurate. He doesn’t want to risk offending the mech — he might be someone important, although unlikely that he sits on the council or any such thing. Those politicians do so love their titles and ranks, and Orion does not have the air nor pomposity to fit in with that crowd.

“Tell me something,” the archivist interrupts Megatronus’ thoughts. “Why did you choose Megatronus?”

Megatronus frowns at the question. “I do not follow.”

Orion looks up at him, and his optics seem friendly, almost fond. “I understand you were sparked D-16. When you chose a name for yourself, you picked ‘Megatronus’. Was there a reason?”

His optics narrow. That he took on the name of the ancient warrior is common knowledge; what is not so commonly known is his miner designation before the fact. “How do you know that?”

Orion looks down at his pedes, his servos crossed behind his back. “Oh, I’ve had an eye on you for a while,” he says enigmatically. There’s a teasing lilt to his tone.

Anxiety rears its ugly head and stabs against his systems, frazzling the data in his processor. Megatronus invents again to centre himself. _Keep faith,_ he repeats the mantra. _Keep faith, Megatronus Prime._

“Should I be flattered?” he says, careful to keep his own tone light. These Iaconians do so love their wordplay. If only this weren’t at the gates of this all-important meeting, Megatronus might even mean it; Orion is certainly a looker, and he’s one of the few mechs who didn’t quail upon first meeting.

Perhaps in another time and place, they might have been able to get to know each other properly. In more ways than one.

Megatronus terminates that thought line savagely. _Is now really the time?_

Orion sways a little in his step. “Not at all.” This time when he glances up, the smile is fully-formed. It reassures Megatronus spark against his own will, this stranger’s mirth. “After all, you were sparked for this.”

A cry of alarm leaves his voice box. “Wh— How do you—”

Orion cuts him off by pushing a door behind him open, and the echoing dim inside catches Megatronus' attention immediately.

“Keep faith, Megatronus,” Orion whispers to him, before stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter the chamber. “They are waiting for you. I’ll see you after.”

Another grating noise leaves his mouth. _What the frag…?_

He feels remarkably off-kilter. Is this some sort of test from the council? Are they trying to rattle him before he speaks to the chamber at large? What an absurd way to do it, though — sending a scribe with a cheeky demeanour to flirt him into anxiety.

He clears his voice box, and raises his chin, glaring down at the archivist. “Yes, you will,” he promises, fire in his voice. It is half for the other, half for himself, and without allowing himself the hesitation of lesser mechs, he shoulders past the council chamber doors.

_They will not deny me._

* * *

They certainly try to. It takes tens of joors of arguing and discussion before it even begins to appear to him that he might actually get what he came for.

His identity, his past, his path to prominence; his low caste as a miner, the energon-soaked fights of his gladiator vorns, his rebellious speeches and unprecedented popularity; his culture-shaking politics and steel-willed determination to see those policies through — all are picked to death by the senators and council members to such a degree Megatronus wonders if there was any point at all in preparing a speech. He spends most of the time defending himself against their increasingly far-fetched attacks, hardly getting in a word edgewise of what he actually prepared for his time on the floor.

But after the end of it all, of gruelling back and forths with mechs he would sooner see disintegrate behind bars, it finally tapers out.

He cracks an upper-lumbar joint wearily, looking around the room. They all get to sit in their cushy senator chairs rising up through the chamber. He stands at the centre, lowest down, with only his own well-tread path across the stage for comfort. But every accusation they’ve thrown at him he has carefully picked apart; every criticism of his proposed politics, his vision for the future, as calmly refuted and explained as he can manage.

It registers in the back of his whirring processor, behind the still-forming counterarguments to statements not yet made. He might have won. He’s… _won._

Cold blue optics scowl down at him from all sides. But nobody dares say another word.

Megatron invents. He waits.

A hush throughout the hall.

“Well?” His voice echoes through the heavy silence. “I have answered every one of your questions. I have laid bare all my intentions. I have the popular support, I have the strength and will to see it through. Will you answer me? Do you heed my call?” When still nobody speaks, he raises his voice in authority, “Well? Do you recognise my authority as the next Prime? Speak!”

Finally, someone speaks out. It is familiar, a soothing hum across his neural net, and it takes Megatronus a moment to realise why.

“If there are no more objections,” Orion Pax speaks from where he stands by the entrance door, “I invite Megatronus of Kaon to make his case for Primacy.”

Megatronus stares back at Orion. _The secretary?_

A murmur runs through the senators. Some seem to even gasp. Megatronus can’t quite make out what they’re whispering to one another, until one of the more outspoken councillors calls down, “The time of Primes is past! Away with you, ghost!”

“Excuse me?” Megatronus begins to retort, until he realises it isn’t to him the mech is speaking.

Orion walks forward with that same casual sway, servos crossed behind him. He only has optics for Megatronus, smiling gently, and Megatronus scowls back in bemusement.

“That’s quite rude,” Orion calls up, gaze not straying from the large warframe in front of him. “But it’s an unusual day, so I’ll excuse you.” Suddenly, a chill runs through the chamber as Orion looks up, blue optics narrowing. “This time.”

Megatronus couldn’t move if he wanted to, frozen in his position on the central stage as Orion calmly walks to him. The mechs around him, previously so outspoken, are paralysed as they stare down. Fear shines clearly through many of their expressions.

“Governance is not your jurisdiction,” another voice starts from higher up, stuttering through the words. “It is for the senate to select Cybertron’s elite!”

Orion is nodding as he walks. “Indeed. The council is not for me to speak on.” The warmth in his tone drops away suddenly. “Just as the Primacy is not for you. Do not forget,” the voice booms suddenly through the chamber, as if amplified by a thousand speakers, “the authority you answer to. If a successful case for Primacy is made, then the time of Primes is no longer past.”

“What the frag is going on,” Megatronus mutters to himself, cycling his optics. The scene reminds him starkly of the guildmasters in the Pits disciplining an unruly gladiator.

Stopping a scant arm’s length from Megatronus, the archivist tilts his head. This close, he can feel some sort of— _energy_ , its origin or meaning foreign to him, but it falls off the small frame in waves. He looks so _slight_ in the shadow Megatronus’ own frame casts, and yet for all of his small stature his presence sends an audible chill through the hall.

Megatronus opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Who are you?” he manages eventually.

Orion’s smile widens into a teasing grin. “The archivist,” he says, as if that explains it all. “But this isn’t about me. Well, Megatronus of Kaon?” Orion tone is once again all warmth as his gaze softens. “Make your case for Primacy.”

Megatronus has to clear his voice box. “T-To whom?” That his voice doesn’t waver is a mark of his ability to bluff. “If it is not the council, then…”

Orion gestures at the raised benches. “To them, of course.”

Megatronus turns around slowly, dreading what he might see.

In hindsight, it should have been obvious. The chamber is constructed in an odd way — he noticed when he walked in, before he could become distracted by a rude comment from some fluffed-up politician. The central platform is a lowered circular floor, and around it, with one small gap that leads to the door, circle rows of benches that climb up as they go. He figured it was an intimidation tactic. It made sense that the senators liked looking down on their guests. But now, as he stares up in wonder, he realises — they are intruders here as much as he is.

Thirteen elevated rows of benches, all looking down on one platform. And sat on each row, in apparently random positions and locations littered through stricken senators, sit figures Megatronus only recognises from the goliath statues that adorn each Cybertronian city plaza.

The Thirteen Primes all look down at him in full colour, armour polished, frames ancient and alien and striking. The air thrums with a deep resonance, similar to that of the entrance doors.

He counts again.

Twelve. Nobody sits on the lowest bench — no senators, but no deific warrior, either. There is only a frame, greyed out and empty, slumped in the very centre of the bench directly ahead of the door. It… Megatronus narrows his optics, heightening his visual sensors. On closer inspection, it does look familiar, actually; a _striking_ resemblance to—

“Sorry,” Orion says jovially from beside him. “They do so love to make an entrance. It’s boring, cooped up with nothing to do for so many millennia.”

Megatronus’ wide optics lower to stare at the archivist. He couldn’t speak if he wanted to.

Orion giggles at his stricken expression. “You’re the most exciting thing to happen in forever. Well. Good luck,” he whispers, before skipping past in that same easy gait.

He moves to the end of the lowest row and shuffles in a little awkwardly, wincing as a pede catches on the bench. Stopping only when he stands right over the empty grey frame, Orion throws Megatronus one last beaming smile before he sits down with gusto and disappears— Megatronus resets his visual feed. Yes, he saw right, Orion Pax just sat _through_ the empty frame.

So fast Megatronus might have missed it if he cycled his optics, colour bleeds through the armour, that lovely red and blue and silver. Bright blue optics online, and blink themselves to calibration. Orion Pax — but twice the size of him, _Primus_ — stretches his neck out and cracks a lumbar joint similar to what Megatronus had done not five kliks ago.

_Well. Slag._

“Forgive me for withholding the truth,” Orion Pax’s voice speaks from the newly awakened frame. “I am Optimus Prime. You may know me as the last of the First Thirteen.”

Megatronus’ optic twitches. Before he can help himself, he speaks, voice slightly hysterical, “Withholding the truth!? You up and up lied, you— fragging— Prime!?” He points, tone accusatory. “I thought you were a flirty librarian! Aren’t you supposed to be the senate secretary?”

He glances at the council members for help but they all seem preoccupied with staring at the godly apparitions in their midst, and ignore his question.

“They don’t have a secretary,” Optimus Prime says, wincing. “I was too eager to meet you, and may have slipped out of the Allspark Realm a tad earlier than required.”

Megatronus chokes. “ _M-May_ have.”

Optimus smiles. Megatronus’ spark seems to buzz in his chest.

“Go on,” the Prime prompts. “Make your case.”

Megatronjus invents heavily. His gaze flicks between the audience, but the other Primes are harder to read, optics neutral as they stare down. When he arrives back on Optimus, the mech gives him an encouraging smile, and it smacks of the same teasing fondness he saw outside in the hallway.

Megatronus snarls. _Had an eye on me, my sine function._ One of the Thirteen Primes of old, Guardians of Primus, Vanquishers of Unicron, has a _crush_ on him.

It is strangely reassuring. If he can unintentionally woo a god, then what’s a speech to twelve more?

He clears his voice box, and relegates whatever intimidated nervousness still survives in his neural net to background processing. He is _Megatronus._ He is the Scourge of Kaon, the Terror of the Pits, the Champion, blast him. He is _strong_. In his processor, he hears a voice of comfort: _keep faith._

Optimus Prime’s optics are unwavering.

He opens his mouth to speak.

* * *

Turns out, Optimus seems to be a favourite amongst the Primes. Megatron secretly suspects it’s a case of being the youngest sibling, and also unequivocally the cutest.

He barely got a word out before Megatronus Prime — the _actual_ Megatronus Prime — vaulted his bench to stand beside Optimus, arms crossed, and started demanding that Megatron change his name. “Megatronus Prime the Second would just sound stupid,” the Fallen decreed.

Optimus started to argue in his defense until Megatron revealed his own plan to do so regardless. Optimus’ optics shone at him with a sudden pride, and Megatronus — the first — glanced between him and Megatron before rolling his optics. “Typical,” he muttered, vaulting back over to his chair with incredible grace considering the multitude of flaming spikes protruding from his armour.

It was about half a joor into his strangely informal interview with the Thirteen that Megatron began to suspect what was actually happening. This was not him making his case for Primacy — this was a _vetting_ process. In the middle of his explanation to Quintus Prime about his intended peaceful methods to dismantle the oppressive caste system, when Optimus actually _sighed dreamily_ , Megatron’s theory solidified beyond reasonable doubt.

He heard Prima and Nexus Prime both stifle a choked laugh at the sudden rush of heat in his faceplate.

At the end of it, Megatron had forgotten the Senators were even there. It barely took a joor at most, but the Primes had a certain magnetism to their presence, and Megatron found himself more than once conversing with an ease he’d only henceforth achieved in Soundwave’s presence. Optimus was positively glowing.

By the time it came around for the Primes to make a decision on whether Megatron was a suitable candidate for Primacy, and a unanimous vote was cast, Megatron was half-convinced this had to be an elaborate dream his processor came up with to instill him with adequate confidence before facing the senate. Each of the Primes descended from their raised benches — “Sorry, excuse me, sorry, don’t mind me,” Amalgomous joked as he stepped over the senators in his way with ease — and took turns shaking Megatron’s hand.

Solus Prime goes so far as to slap him on the arm, and give him a meaningful look. “Take care of him,” she orders. “He’s been waiting for this for _vorns._ ”

Liege Maximo makes a face behind her. “Good riddance. If I have to hear one more lovesick remark about miner frames’ weight carrying capacities I shall have no choice but to purge.”

Prima claps Megatron on the back heartily. “Might do you some good, Liege,” he remarks. “Stick up your aft lodged that high—”

Liege Maximo screeches as he leaps for Prima, who laughs as he sidesteps the flight-frame’s attack with ease.

Solus, Megatronus, and Optimus all watch them scuffle with varying expressions of exasperation, the former two sighing in unison as they both raise a hand to their faceplates. Megatron can see, watching them, why they gravitated towards each other. Then, naturally, his gaze falls to Optimus. He looks handsome, even with an unimpressed frown as he watches his brothers fighting.

Megatron leans down to whisper to him, “Are they always like this?”

Optimus starts, and then turns around with laughter in his optics. “You have no idea.”

* * *

“Why are you still following me?” Megatron asks, when Optimus doesn’t stop at the council chamber doors, instead falling in step with him as they return down the hallway.

“Oh,” Optimus gasps cutely, and turns with a mollified expression to Megatron. “We forgot to explain what Primacy actually meant.”

Megatron’s optic twitches. “Alright,” he says slowly, “Go on.”

Optimus looks a bit embarrassed. “When Cybertonians find that they need to call upon the Primacy, one of the Thirteen joins the people to provide leadership and support. The mech who calls upon the Matrix—” And without warning, he pops open his chestplates, bathing them both in the bright blue light of his spark. “This thing,” Optimus points at the small round artifact fixed upon the chamber, “is the Matrix of Leadership, and the reason I can walk around and…” He waves his arms in the air. “Do things.”

Megatron swears his optics must be at their widest aperture as he stares at Optimus’ still bared spark. Licking his lips, he swallows. “P-Put that away,” the words come out in a hiss. “I don’t know how you Primes like to do things, but around here, mechs don’t go around popping their chestplates for just anyone!”

Optimus’ mouth falls open in understanding before he shuts them again. Brushing a hand down his windshield — Megatron makes a choked noise as he feels his shoulder pauldrons flick in embarrassed arousal, _you can’t just do that in public_ — Optimus glances up at Megatron again. “How interesting. You must explain this to me later.”

That sounds like a proposition to spark merge. Does the Prime realise that sounds like a proposition to spark merge?

“What else is new?” Optimus is leaning forward into Megatron’s space, optics fragging _sparkling_ , Megatron swears to Primus—

He takes Optimus by the shoulders and pushes him back. “You can’t mean to say you’re going out there with me.”

Optimus tilts his head. “Of course I am.”

“You can’t go out there!” Megatron wonders if his reality matrix has fallen over sideways. Maybe the senate offlined him the moment he stepped into the building. That sure would make a lot more sense than anything that’s happened since then. “You’re a _god,_ you can’t just—” He scrambles for words. “Walk around as if that’s normal!”

“But I must!” Optimus looks more confused than anything. “I’m the Prime.”

“No,” Megatron growls, “ _I’m_ the Prime. That’s what all of this was about.”

Optimus chuckles, and pats Megatron’s chest affectionately, right over where his spark lies. It gives an answering skip. “No,” he argues gently, “you’re the Lord Protector. Remember?”

Megatron cycles his optics blankly.

Optimus’ eyebrows raise. “You know. The Prime’s chosen consort. That’s how Primacy has always functioned, I thought you knew that before you came in here...”

Megatron’s processor is very close to rebooting, he can feel his systems itching for it. He tampers it down severely, similarly forcing his vocaliser to initiate. “There hasn’t _been_ a Prime since the Age of Primes. There is no precedent.”

Optimus seems to wince. “Oh. Ah. Oh, dear. I see.” Gently, he takes Megatron’s frozen servos off his shoulders and settles them back at his sides. “Well.” He claps his own servos together. “I’m afraid it’s all sort of decided, now. We can always go back and—” He clears his throat. “I mean, I’m sure they’ll understand, I just need to—”

Megatron snaps out of his stupor. His optics narrow as he takes in Optimus’ babbling, his careless gesturing, the way he won’t meet Megatron’s gaze. This mech is a stranger. Megatron has certainly never met him, not in this form, nor in his little archivist disguise; he shouldn’t feel any sort of connection or responsibility towards him whatsoever. But he remembers, as he stares at Optimus, the warmth radiating from that small reassuring smile; he remembers the cold look he shot the senator on Megatron’s behalf; he thinks of the crowd waiting outside, strung on his promises of a better future, of Soundwave’s expectant message; of his own spark, spinning excitedly in his chest as he takes in the mech in front of him.

Oh, Optimus Prime is far more charming than any ancient deific entity has a right to be. Megatronus isn’t even _religious,_ slag him.

He slaps a servo over Optimus’ mouth. The Prime blinks his optics in confusion, vent warm against Megatron’s palm. He has to suppress a shiver thanks to that, for Pit’s sake, this is ridiculous—

“I never said,” Megatron grinds out, “that I was unwilling.” Once understanding settles in Optimus’ gaze, and a blooming joy after that, he continues, “Tell me the responsibilities of this... “ He removes his servo from Optimus’ mouth to wave in the air. “Lord Protector.”

Optimus bites his lip before answering, gaze straying. “You harbour the spark of your chosen Prime. You are the shield to the Prime’s sword. You…” He clears his voice box, finally looking Megatron in the optic. “You’re my guardian. You protect me, and I protect you, and we lead. Together. If you wish to.”

For a moment, all Megatron can feel is the violent thrumming of his spark, and Optimus Prime’s serious blue optics gazing straight into his soul.

“Alright.” He swallows. _Keep faith. You were sparked for this._ A familiar excitement settles into his coding, a feeling of rightness — for reasons he can’t know, cannot fathom, but it is that; it is _familiar_. “Alright,” he repeats, feeling as if his pedes have finally found solid ground. “We lead together. Amongst other things.”

Optimus nods.

After a moment, Megatron grins. “I can work with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> prima: jock  
> megatronus and solus: happily married  
> liege maximo: starscream
> 
> catch me writing a sequel entirely about megatron trying to keep his culture-shocked soulmate out of trouble (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


End file.
